A 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale, And the Puppy Howls

By E. P. Lee

When Eric’s life fell apart, he bought a puppy. And though one scampering, howling, messing little friend couldn’t make everything alright, it was a new start when his life had sort of stopped. One by one, he’d lost them all: his health, his lover, his man’s-best-friend – the puppy’s predecessor, Ziggy – one by one, until he had nothing left but his waterfront house in Miami and the memories that haunt it.

Now, with the puppy by his side, Eric’s got a lot of healing to do, but how to start?

“And the Puppy Howls” is the story of being hit by everything modern American life can throw at you, and who, and what, comes next.

See “unusual” things:

Journey with Eric...

• Language: English
• Publisher: E. P. Lee
• Release date: Mar 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370973521

E. P. Lee

After a lifetime spent in his native New York Eric Paul Lee now resides in beautiful, tropical, Miami, Florida. Born in Brooklyn and raised in Coney Island, Eric often wandered the Boardwalk in his childhood. Eric frequently wasted his allowance at the now demolished Steeplechase Park and the other dated, dowdy and declining amusements that defined Coney Island... and much of traditional society... back then. The traditional was still IN back then. And the traditional like Coney Island had seen its glory days, its heyday, long passed. But the new hadn’t arrived yet. Just the old was fading... And so the forms still had to be obeyed. And with that Eric’s parent’s obeyed those forms and Eric was dispatched to college in Upstate NY to return to Brooklyn some four years later. Upon graduation from college Eric bounced from job to job until the Graphic Arts caught his creative eye and a new career began. With his first graphics production position under his belt Eric moved in to Manhattan some two years later never to live in Brooklyn again. Success built on success as corporate stints in California brought about even greater successes leading to Eric’s eventual New York City return and the opening of his own Graphics Agency in Manhattan. That enterprise ran successfully for over twenty years. Now out of industry entirely, Eric is happy to enjoy the perpetual Florida sun and write.

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Copyright © 2018 Eric Paul Lee.

andthepuppyhowls.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—— whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—— without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

All characters, situations, names, places and locations are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblance to actual people living or dead, events, businesses, locations, or places is completely coincidental.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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"For Shirley:

There are relationships and then there are relationships… and then there is family. This wouldn’t have been the same without you.

Surely Shirley…

… you did good!"

Table of Contents

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1

A preface

Freud (my 27lb fawn colored French Bulldog), just dripped a gallon of water on my right leg and foot. He’s just out of the pool where he was cooling his coin sack (he’s neutered), after chasing the plastic stick that my BF Seth religiously throws for him (5) or (6) mornings a week in between his sips of espresso, and conversation with me, on the back deck.

For the whole hour we’re together Freud sits at Seth’s feet panting, drooling, and mewling for attention until Seth leans down to pick up the bright green, orange, or purple 1 ½" wide, 13" long stick at his feet. Immediately Freud grabs whatever stick has been chosen between his teeth and wrestles Seth for it. If Seth wins and gets the stick free it’s thrown into the garden for Freud to chase, and fetch back.

If Freud gets the stick away from Seth:

… see above.

This goes on for a solid hour.

Sandy, Seth’s 112lb (at her last yearly physical), (5)-year old GIGUNDA Palomino American Bulldog (Freud’s BGFF), is usually ignoring all of the festivities unfolding around her while she’s lying at, or on, my left foot waiting for me to give her a cookie (a dog biscuit). Over the ensuing hour Sandy usually has (8), or (9), of the (10) cookies I’ve brought out with Seth’s espresso depending on when and if Freud has left his stick game for a snack.

Sandy usually has (9)…

… or (10).

So the regular hour visit is over and they’ve just left.

In addition to a soaking wet right foot and leg, I have a damp left leg from Sandy’s ever-present cookie drool, and a wet chest and back from the sweat dripping down from my shoulders and upper torso. The bands of my Calvin’s, my black Calvin Athletic Fit T-shirt itself in spots, and my blue/black/white surfboard printed board shorts, are all damp to WET; it doesn’t feel pleasant. It’s August hot and humid out, and it’s only the beginning of June.

HOT & HUMID…

Sweaty…

Not pleasant…

And yet the backyard the deck inhabits is a quiet, visually pleasing paradise. The vegetation that abounds, all of my Areca Palm trees, my Fan-Palm trees, my Royal Palm trees, planted barely (4)-years ago when I first bought and moved into this house (Here), from There (my previous waterfront manse), have shot up. Those babies have doubled and tripled in size and now you can’t see any of the other houses on either side of mine, or in the back. The 6’ high wood plank fence that surrounds my 10,000 square foot property is completely invisible too.

And my more recently planted flowering shrubs and annuals: Bougainvillea, Hibiscus, Birds of Paradise, Impatiens, Penta, Begonias, and Violets are all bursting with summer color. With my fully maturing Banana tree bearing (3) massive stalks of fruit for added visual texture it’s as if I’m in a private compound in Key West, and not in Miami Shores, Florida a small urban Center near to I-95 (a horrifically trafficked Federal Super Highway (about a half a mile to the west), and Miami Downtown itself. I’m dead center in a high density urban/suburban wasteland, and no one would ever know.

Except me…

… as I chose the property, Here, and I designed it this way.

And it’s worked…

There’s a service alley behind my high back plantings and wooden fence. Except for the residents who share my service alley leaving for work, or coming home, (5) of them max, and only (1) home owner actually uses the alley regularly as everyone else parks out front on the street, or on their front driveway like me, occasional lawn maintenance contractors, the city service trucks (garbage and bulk pick-up twice a week), and an occasional scheduled repair truck: electric company, cable company, or gasp, Bellsouth (that’s so last century…), there is no traffic there.

So there is no noise out back.

And since the street out front itself is a dead end, with only (10) houses on it total, there is no traffic or pedestrian noise there either.

An enclave, I bought a house in an enclave.

Sometimes on a crisp day in winter (a crisp winter day in sub-tropical Miami, Florida, not often that, not often…) you can hear the whoosh of traffic from I-95 when walking on the street as you approach the dead-end to the west. But even on those days, my backyard is silent.

Like I said, my backyard is a quiet visual paradise, and I love it.

So with wet feet, and a somewhat sweaty and wet upper bod, I was still sitting at the deck dining table listening to the music from my iPod powered Beats speaker. There I quietly sat (damp…), sipping the dregs of my cold espresso as my regular guests departed and my thoughts started to wander into places almost as cold and dark as those black espresso dregs.

Lynn my current paramour du jour, and the only person I’ve been having regular sex with for the past (3) years or so, has been in La Jolla, California on business for almost an entire month now, and I’m starting to get antsy.

It’s not a sexual thing per se, sex is only part of that antsy affliction. You see over time Lynn has become 60% of all of my social interactions, with Seth, Ami his wife, and their behemoth Sandy being another 20% of same, and everyone else I know, my BFF from college Leslie and her brood, and my ex-partner/ne-lover, Gal from (30) years ago included, making up the balance.

Gal is in Skagway, Alaska now on permanent business assignment so we neither speak much or see each other anymore. So with Lynn away I’m home alone most of the time and mucho incommunicado. There are long periods of time where Seth is the only human being I’ll speak to in person (except for my housekeepers (Divinity and Patricia), or other tradespeople), for days.

My smart phone is really dumb of late, it doesn’t ring much anymore. And there’s reasons for that, and for all of this other minimal human interaction too. I’m the one responsible for all of this being what it is. Or perhaps, just maybe, I’m not solely responsible and the times we live in, societal change as it’s gone down, the tragedies, and the personal physical events of a lifetime passed, have all conspired to put me in the position I now find myself in.

Hmmmm…

Well…

… here goes...

It begins…

And the Puppy Howls

A 21st Century Adult Fairy Tale

And the puppy howls… all night long too.

I had to leave the little one alone. You can’t honor that behavior by reacting. If you react it’s like a baby with call and response, they cry and you pick them up. That’s bad, they’ll always cry after that.

But I’m exhausted.

The puppy, Freud, howled all the night through, and the night before too. Gal was angry at me to boot.

"How…

… just HOW…

… can you do that to the poor dog?"

I’m always the ogre.

I’m the one to do the training. I’m the one to give the baths. I’m the one to take the animal to the vet. I’m the disciplinarian. I’m the bad guy. And Freud, the howling puppy, a dark fawn colored (10)-week old French Bulldog responds well. Except when Gal treats him without discipline and the little boy thinks he can do anything he wants.

Then I have to be the bad guy and undo what has just been done.

And poor Freud has to be crated.

Freud wasn’t happy in the crate, Freud wasn’t happy at all. Freud was so unhappy that Freud didn’t sleep all night. All Freud did was howl. That howling stopped all other sleep in the house.

I didn’t sleep. Gal didn’t sleep. Freud didn’t sleep.

The little monster wouldn’t potty outside either. Freud was going to show me. Except Freud didn’t, I just kept Freud in the crate. On Freud’s regular schedule I took Freud out. Freud didn’t even sniff spots the first (2) times I walked him so back into the crate Freud went. Gal had already left for Gal’s home near Key West so I didn’t have a litany of carping to deal with too, just the howls of confinement.

Finally…

… on walk (3)…

… a piddle.

That piddle got a "good boy" response and a return to open privileges. Freud is wagging his little tail and happy again. All schedules are maintained and bathroom functions back on a viable puppy, or should I say "poopy" track.

Freud’s exhausted too.

Freud’s nearly asleep in my lap again, but calm and happy. The howls were unnerving. You would’ve thought Freud was being tortured. It was pretty pitiful.

It’s good to get the new decade off this way though. Even with all of the poop I have to deal with. It’s good to have the positive reinforcement and life of the puppy around. Last year, the whole decade too, was just defeat, denial, declining expectations, death…

… and loss.

This is at least a hint at something better.

I know it’s only a puppy.

2

Freud has a long way to go to replace my best friend Sigmund, forever and better known as Ziggy; Ziggy was my first French Bulldog, all white and all attitude, my little man, the focus of my life.

I loved Ziggy so.

Ziggy used to fly with me under the seat, and often. I used to say:

"If the plane goes down it’ll all be OK because everything I need to take care of is right here with me."

The business, my ex-lover Gal, my then current boyfriend Mitch, they could all take care of themselves.

But Ziggy, Ziggy cared for me, and I cared for Ziggy.

When the boyfriend, Mitch, died last October of a fatal brain injury in a bad work-related accident Ziggy rallied around me with an outpouring of love and affection. For (4) weeks my "little man" was just exceptional.

And then…

… well …

… Ziggy’s heart gave out as Ziggy had an unknown tumor growing on the right side of his heart. The tumor had probably been there from birth, but now it was the size of a grapefruit, and the tumor was starving Ziggy’s lungs of air and pressing on his trachea which disrupted airflow making it harder for the dog to breathe (not a good thing for a French Bulldog who starts off life with a pushed in nose to begin with).

Not a good thing…

The tumor also stopped Ziggy’s heart from completely flushing out the blood coming in. The resulting backwash of un-pumped blood was going down to Ziggy’s liver. In the liver the excess blood was being processed into a sterile bile that flooded Ziggy’s abdominal cavity. Ziggy’s belly distended then and all of a sudden, like a switch had been flipped, Ziggy stopped eating. Next, Ziggy’s digestive track went whack and violent diarrhea ensued and my little man would momentarily pass out from lack of oxygen, or the strain on his poor little system, or hunger.

It was painful to witness.

It was unbearable to watch more than once.

I couldn’t take it.

I truly believe that Ziggy had decided that I was strong enough, and far enough along in my own recovery, for him to leave me. Ziggy could finally be sick and let go.

So he did…

Ziggy had been getting sick for a long time. I was treating symptoms as they came up. I thought I was winning too, but Ziggy was over (14) years old, that’s (98) in dog years…

… (98) …

I always knew I would lose Ziggy sometime. I just didn’t want to lose Ziggy now.

Shit…

I didn’t want to lose Ziggy ever.

I cried.

3

Ziggy was still feisty at the end.

Even though he hadn’t eaten in (3) days Ziggy wanted to go on his raft in his pool, so Ziggy did. Instead of jumping on and off the raft and running back and forth on it to make the raft go where Ziggy wanted it to go, Ziggy had to be helped on and off, and the raft had to be pushed to make it move.

But Ziggy had fun.

I have pictures.

That was the last time Ziggy smiled.

Ziggy was angry with me at that end too. I took a picture of him in the car on that last ride to the vet. Ziggy was glaring at me then. Everyone who sees the picture knows that glare.

But that was Ziggy, Ziggy smiled and glared (and farted…).

Ziggy was always in control, even at that very end.

Ziggy hated to be alone.

So at that end I made sure Ziggy wasn’t alone. I held him as he passed. I held Ziggy the entire time. I have to go and pick up his ashes. They called me from the Vet’s office the Thursday before New Year’s, the ashes are ready for pick-up. Gal wants me to place the ashes by the pool downstairs.

Ziggy loved that pool so much that Ziggy became a French Waterdog. That’s kinda funny as French Bulldogs hate water as they can’t swim. French Bulldogs are so dense and top heavy that they sink in a pool, and fast. But Ziggy loved his pool and Ziggy would spend hours there, in it, and lying by it.

Ziggy would spend hours running round, and round, and round the pool chasing anybody who was in the water. Or Ziggy would raft round, and round the pool, barking constantly and trying to catch whomever was playing in the water. Ziggy loved children too. I still don’t know why that as Ziggy was rarely around kids, yet Ziggy always knew how to play with children and play with children Ziggy did.

Ziggy just didn’t go in the water much though.

"What me swim?"

But Ziggy loved that pool.

I can’t do that ashes thing by the pool here though. I’m not keeping this house. And I want Ziggy with me where I move. I still have Kitchi’s ashes (15) years after her passing. Kitchi was Ziggy’s canine predecessor in my heart, Kitchi, a big, beautiful, pinto Japanese Akita.

I want Ziggy’s memory with me too.

4

When I started to renovate this house I decided to put the pool in first.

That way even with all of the rest of construction going on I’d at least have a sanctuary to run to while the interior was in chaos. It worked out that way too. The pool quickly became a paradise.

Still…

… it took more than (6) months to complete the pool and those (6) months were pretty terrible. But the pool became that wanted sanctuary and was the salvation needed as the rest of the house was engulfed in construction.

That pool construction was planned with Ziggy in mind from the very start. As estimates were requested the various pool company sales representatives were told what was required. These Pool People didn’t want to do the pool that way. One company refused outright to bid; they simply would not quote the work, and (2) other companies gave me multiple arguments as to why they didn’t want to do what I wanted done the way I wanted it done. I had to insist and threaten, though I eventually won out. The pool companies finally quoted what was asked for, and the winning bidder did exactly what was wanted.

I just didn’t get all of the drama.

And all of that drama was for Ziggy.

I had a vinyl liner pool and steps at my old house in East Hampton, New York. Ziggy couldn’t, or wouldn’t, train himself to swim to those steps to climb out of the pool when he fell in the water. With Ziggy’s little 8’ legs he couldn’t lift his body weight up to the brick pool coping around the pool perimeter. So when Ziggy fell off the raft while playing he would swim to the edges of the pool where he would flail away at the vinyl liner to get up and out. But there was never a crisis as I was always there to save him.

Ziggy didn’t play in the pool alone, or without me there, ever, which is why Ziggy wasn’t afraid of the water. But Ziggy didn’t like not being in control as he was being carried out of the pool and up to the dry deck, boy did he fidget and squirm.

Ziggy wanted to do it all by himself, but Ziggy couldn’t. So when I designed this pool I made sure that those issues wouldn’t be a factor here. This was going to be a forever house so why not just do it right?

And it was a forever house, for Ziggy…

So upfront I told the Pool People that:

There has to be a ledge on all (4) sides of the pool.

Which led to Discussion Numero Uno as the Pool People informed me:

Pools aren’t done that way here.

I said:

But, that’s what I want.

They said:

You can’t do laps that way.

I said:

"Who does laps?

We float."

At first the Pool People refused to quote and I said, pretending to be unruffled, even though I had nowhere else to turn and I just had to have a pool:

Don’t bother quoting.

Lo and behold most of the Pool People then relented which led to Discussion Numero Dos.

Discussion Numero Dos began when the Pool People said that they would:

… do a ledge on all (4) sides of the pool 18 under the water line."

And I said:

"NO!

I want the ledge 10 under the water line.

The Pool People replied loudly, and indignantly, as if I had questioned their paternity:

They said:

SIR! (like I was the ultimate idiot in pool design and other stuff):

At 18 your guests will sit around the pool on the seating ledge in water up to their chests."

I said:

"Great…

… my GUESTS will be comfortable and my little dog will drown."

I won…

… but the ledge was going to be in the Pool People’s words:

expensive …

… and the ledge was "expensive" in my words too. But the ledge was going to be built. An 18" wide ledge, 3 ½’ tall, around a 34 X 19’ pool uses a lot of concrete not part of an initial estimate. But it was worth every penny; Ziggy had complete control in the pool from the first day the pool was filled.

Ziggy could get in and out of the water at will.

And he did…

When Ziggy fell off the raft as he sometimes did he swam to any ledge nearby and stood stock still for just a moment before shaking the water from his head and ears and then running around all the (4) sides of the pool ledge and finally jumping back on to a raft to keep playing. Ziggy would be barking, and smiling, the whole time.

Ziggy loved his pool and it was "his" pool, always.

I treasure all of the pictures I have.

They make me smile.

My friends loved the ledge too; they all said:

It’s a pleasure not to have to sit in water up to my tits.

If I ever do a pool again from scratch a ledge 10" below the water line will be de rigueur. It works for small dogs and regular sized people too…

… live and learn.

But I can’t leave Ziggy’s ashes here at this pool, here at this house.

I just can’t.

5

Ziggy was a fluke, Ziggy was puppy mill find I never should have bought.

I try not to support things like puppy mills. It’s my liberal do good conscience I suppose. But there I was out shopping for new living room furniture and there he was, Ziggy, in a pet shop window. I asked:

How much is that doggie in the window?

Ziggy was the strangest, ugliest, creature I had ever seen. At first, I called him:

Mister Ugly.

How could I replace my 92lb regal princess, of an Akita, Kitchi, with a tiny 4lb rat-dog no one had ever seen before? This was 1996 when French Bulldogs weren’t even on the radar as pets in New York City.

No one had seen Frenchies yet, no one.

And this one was UGLY!

I thought I would get (2) Frenchies though, "(2)Frenchies" would be better. The (2) Frenchies together would equal (1) medium sized dog. And I wouldn’t have a little "rat-dog" then.

So now pair names went through my head:

Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello, Lady and Tramp, Scarlett and Rhett, but they’d all been done.

Then, suddenly, it hit me:

Sigmund Freud.

I would be standing in Central Park screaming out:

Sigmund Freud!

And (2) adorable French Bulldogs would come running up to my side…

Perfect…

Except Sigmund turned out to have such a big personality, to be such a "big" little dog, that Freud never became a reality and Sigmund morphed instantly into Ziggy. Some (14) years later Ziggy was gone, so I finally got Freud. And he is perfect being Freud by himself.

Still…

I miss my "little man" Ziggy.

I miss Ziggy terribly.

6

And today Freud howls and howls; oh to be a puppy in a big marble kennel with a plush bed and wee-wee pads, and toys, and food, and water.

It’s such torture, torture…

TORTURE! …

Pitiful...

It’s just pitiful.

Where Ziggy was Mr. Ugly, Freud is very handsome. And as Ziggy was a smart animal, Freud is very bright also, Freud is very inquisitive, very loving, and very playful.

Freud’s the perfect puppy.

And Freud is training himself easily and well. Except that is, when Freud doesn’t. Freud goes through moments when he knows what to do, but he just won’t do it. Ziggy used to do that too, consequences be damned, it must be a genetic thing.

Sooooo…

I deal…

I don’t have a choice either, puppies, like children, have to be trained…

… people in relationships too …

Otherwise you go through the same stuff, the same bad behavior, forever. And I don’t like having to repeat negative things, negative situations, and I don’t tolerate fools easily.

So Freud learns quickly, and I pick up poop, and clean up the occasional accident that occurs as we march forward into the future together. With it all Freud does make me smile.

Now…

If only Mitch could be replaced as easily as Ziggy was.

Mitch…

… Mitch was my boyfriend of almost (5) years when he died. I hesitate to admit it:

… "boyfriend" …

Hmmmmm…

… SHIT…

… there’s no question in my mind that Mitch was my "Lover" at the end. Come to think of it, Mitch was probably my Lover back at the beginning too …

… Hmmmmm …

What a nasty time that was for me as Ziggy became sick barely (4) weeks after Mitch’s fatal accident. And Ziggy died just (3) weeks after that. Only (7) weeks separated the (2) events.

I was completely torn up.

I thought my life was over.

OVER!

The house was so silent then, tomblike.

Previously Mitch and Ziggy had filled the house with life and noise. Ziggy was loud with his antics: farts, snorts, grunts, and all of the other things Frenchies do daily. And Mitch filled the house by simply being there what with the constant phone calls from his live-in girlfriend and his 100% dysfunctional family, the half-heard music from his ever-present ear buds, the frequent sex we had, the work he did around the house, and just his company, his presence.

The house was full of noise and life daily…

And I loved them both.

They’re both gone.

7

You can’t just go out and look for a boyfriend/relationship, at least I can’t.

Every time I’ve gone "looking" I haven’t found one. It seems like boyfriends, relationships avoided me, and I avoided them whenever I’ve done that looking thing in the past. It’s always been that way.

Maybe it’s hormonal?

So I knew that actively looking for a boyfriend/relationship wasn’t an option for me. Perhaps putting myself out there and making myself available…

… well…

… maybe I could manage that at some point. But I didn’t think I could do that yet; eventually, perhaps. But right at that moment of Mitch’s passing, of Ziggy’s death…

Nooooo…

… not yet for that, the wounds, emotional and physical, were just too raw.

So I stared to fantasize.

Right away I had one nice fantasy, but other than that limited engagement, and it was limited, very limited, I didn’t do anything else. Emotionally I couldn’t, physically I couldn’t, so I stewed and I waited. I don’t like "stew" and I don’t like to wait, but that was it. I couldn’t do more. So I stewed, and I waited; and fat, I got fat on all of that stew, and lack of activity.

FAT! …

But what I could do then was try to find a new dog.

So I made that my mission and from that mission came Freud, and that’s a good thing. Freud is anchoring me to life, anchoring me to the outside world again, and giving me purpose.

I needed that.

But it’s not like Freud happened all that easily.

Where Ziggy was a spur of the moment impulse buy, I saw Ziggy in a pet store window when I was out shopping for living room furniture and I bought him immediately, a case I suppose of:

love at first sight.

Not Freud though…

… nooooo …

… Freud was a project.

There wasn’t a breeder bred French Bulldog puppy to be had for sale in Florida or lower Georgia at the time Ziggy died. I couldn’t find a dog from any reputable local breeders, nothing, nada, zilch.

From Pet Stores, from Puppy Mills…

… yesssss …

… sure …

… there I could buy a Frenchie puppy.

But I had done that once before and the resulting dog, Ziggy, was sick from the third week he was with me until he died over (14) years later. I wasn’t doing that again.

No this time I was going to do it right.

I was going to live up to my do-good